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The Christmas cookies have been reduced to stale bits and crumbs. The time has passed where I eye the hardened remains, weighing the pros and cons. Yes they will be rock hard, but that’s nothing a little 2% can’t handle. Sugar never goes bad and that’s what it’s all about anyway. A delivery system. Neurotransmitters. Primitive desire and satisfaction.

I am getting fat, slow, lazy. Pehaps this is relic of my wild ancestors as well. Storing up for the winter when sustenance is less accessable. Preparing for a long winter’s nap. I feel like a human groundhog.

But no! I am evolved. I am Twenty-First Century man. Thus, with the holiday cheer behind me, I cannot rest! There is seasonal depression and bitter, bitter cold to address. It is prime time for novel reading, movie screening, HBO, and gift certificate redemption. Last winter, I hunkered down with Bleak House and delighted in Esther Summerson’s cheery reaction to being deformed by smallpox because, hooray! Now she wouldn’t be so conceited!

Haha! I’m vaccinated, life is grand. I get to be as conceited as I want to be.

And so dear, dear readers, you dozens for whom I deliver the noble gift of Selective Appeal, ready yourselves for the resuming of cultural fireworks and bottomless rants from high atop my mountain of elitism.